Cigarettes and Bruises
by alittlebreathlessness
Summary: An accident changes Shelagh & Patrick's plan for a productive Saturday.


"AAARGH!"

As soon as she heard Patrick's voice and the resounding crash that followed, Shelagh knew he had gone against her wishes. She threw herself from the font of the house to the back, ears suddenly aware of the sound of wood crackling against stone. When she reached the door to the garden her heart stopped. Patrick lay sprawled over the brick path they had laid together two weeks ago, with the old ladder atop him and shards of wood and vine on the ground around him. He was on his side, rolling and clutching his ribcage with an expression of pain on his face unlike any she had seen from him before.

"Patrick!" She shouted breathlessly as she sank to the ground beside him. She heaved the ladder from him and her hands hovered over his shoulder as he made to get up, unsure if touching him would cause more pain. _I told you to wait_, she wanted to scream, _why didn't you wait for me?_ She was furious and worried and terrified all at once.

He groaned and tried to sit up before whimpering and kneading his ribs again.

"Well that was a bloody stupid thing to do, Turner," he muttered to himself as she tucked an arm beneath his and tried to lift him. He was heavy, of course, and she wobbled on her knees and ankles before he rose, bent to her level, face in a painful grimace. When they finally stood she noticed the garden shears that must have dropped from his hands lying in a nearby flowerbed. It was all she could do not to fall to her knees and thank God that he had not fallen directly on top of them.

Patrick seemed to notice them at the same time and shot her a strained smile. "That was a close one, eh?"

Shelagh set her face in her fury. _How dare he try to joke? He could have been killed._ She ignored his attempt at cheer and took a hesitant two steps with him toward the house. His steps were strong, and that was a good sign.

"Are you all right?" She managed to ask between deep breaths under his strain. "Is it just your side?"

She saw her husband nod and try to keep a straight face as he took inventory of his own body. "Yes I think so," he whimpered. "Bruised ribs, definitely. Heart is still beating, though. For you," he added playfully.

Shelagh felt herself smile quite against her will as they crossed the path where clover was already beginning to sprout between the bricks. "Well, let's get you inside for an examination."

"Oh, yes please," he joked again, but winced when he laughed at the pain it caused in his side.

"Serves you right, you cheeky beggar," she said, giving him a quick smile to show that she was still cross but not completely unsympathetic.

She turned around and crouched to lower him into the kitchen chair before righting herself and finally getting a good look at him. Unable to suppress a smile, she brought her hand to rest at her mouth. What a sight he was. Dressed in an old shirt with paint splattered on one side and trousers with tiny tears at the knees and green stains it was useless to try to remove, he looked far grubbier than most Saturdays. There were tiny cuts on his left cheek and arm from branches he had fallen against. Patrick's mop of salt-and-pepper hair was tousled, adorned with tiny green ivy leaves and dust from the vine he had been attempting to trim. There was a twig standing up in the back and she reached out to remove it, grazing his cheek with her knuckles. He was watching her take in the sight of him with a sheepish look that mixed apology and amusement. She'd grown used to his staring, understood his admiration of her soon after they were married but was always startled by the intensity of his gaze when her eyes found it. At this moment she blushed and knit her eyebrows in a mockingly stern frown, but when the corner of his mouth tilted upwards she put aside her anger and her eyes grew wide in concern for this ridiculous man.

"Why didn't you wait for me?" She asked quietly, feeling a knot in the back of her throat forming as visions of a fate worse than bruised ribs came to her mind as sharp as the garden shears laying outside. She didn't wait for his answer and stooped to her knees, feeling them slide a bit on the capri pants between her skin and the tile floor. With one hand she leaned on his leg, with the other she removed his hand still holding his left side, then with all of her fingers she carefully touched the place and felt his body jolt in pain, saw his jaw clench.

"Are you sure this is all that hurts?" She asked.

Patrick let out a long and heavy breath. "Yes. I think I bounced right off the ladder. It doesn't feel broken."

Shelagh pursed her lips and shot him a look. "You've never broken a bone in your body, Patrick Turner, how do you know what it feels like?"

He feigned shock and his eyebrows raised, "I _am_ a doctor, madam!"

"Yes, and you should know better than to go climbing on old broken ladders and trimming tall hedges without someone to... to..." She fumbled here, searching for words and returned her eyes to his chest and busied herself with untucking the shirt from his belt to get a better look.

"To what?" Patrick prompted. "To catch me when I fall?" He laughed and caught her chin on his knuckle and turned her face up to him. "I'm fine, darling, really I am." And to demonstrate how fine he was, he stood quickly, stumbled, and fell right back into his chair.

"Oof!"

"Oh!" Shelagh cried as she grabbed the hand that was not clutching the table. "Patrick you are hurt, now stop being silly and let me have a look at you. Hold still."

He did as told, leaning his right side against the table so she could examine his left. She forced herself to look directly forward so she wouldn't see the pain in his face, and finished untucking his shirt. His vest underneath was slightly damp from summer sweat; she smelled its sweetness and felt a familiar stirring in her insides. She threw the thought aside - _not now_ - and lifted the white cotton, took in the dull pinky redness of his left side and noted the slight swollenness it already housed.

She felt him wince when she touched his skin. "How much...?" She asked without having to finish the question. Applying small, increasing amounts of pressure to his ribs, moving her hands around the area, Shelagh watched his face and observed the grunts he tried to swallow. _Stubborn man_, she thought, until the last time she pressed and his middle caved back away from her and he cried out.

"Sorry, sorry," she chanted as he tried to wave away her apology. She hated to see him in pain, hated anything to form those deep creases above his nose that wasn't laughter or joking.

She sat back on her heels, took his hand and kissed his knuckles. "I don't see anything that concerns me, Patrick, though you might have a cracked a rib or two."

"No shattered bones poking through or organs spilling out?"

"No." She was much softer now. "You might need an x-ray, in case there's a fracture. You'll need to rest for today, I'm afraid. I think we should get you upstairs and into bed." When his eyebrows shot up and his eyes twinkled she did not even pretend not to be amused.

It would be a lie to say that she hadn't wished for at least part of their day to be spent upstairs. The children were out of the house for the day at Granny Parker's and it had been the perfect opportunity for Shelagh and Patrick to work on the garden that had gone seriously neglected the past two summers. The brick path they'd just completed had been a project she wanted to begin since Angela was a baby, and while Shelagh was meticulous at keeping her flower garden weeded and orderly, the hedge perpendicular to the house had grown massive and ivy was starting to precariously crawl toward the rooftop. Patrick was more than eager to help her – "Just a day without hearing Timothy blasting The bloody Beatles would be Heaven" – and they had started the day with an early breakfast before seeing the children off at the bus stop. Once the door shut behind them upon their return home they had both stood in the silence and stared at each other without knowing what to say. Silence was so rare when both of them were together during the day. When Patrick crossed the hall and snatched her waist Shelagh was wont to protest, sliding into his arms as always and warming as he kissed her and his hands wandered to her thighs until she reminded him that there was work to be done before too much fun could be had, and set about finding her gardening gloves.

Now, heaving Patrick onto her shoulder and trying not to touch his other side, Shelagh wished she they had continued what they had started in the hall. They might never have made it to the garden, but at least Patrick would not be in pain and all of her nice plans for the day would have been discarded due to happy circumstances instead of these.

"Here we go," she huffed, walking slowly with Patrick.

"Shelagh.. you don't... have to..." he grunted through gritted teeth.

"Hush, Patrick," she muttered. She was quite out of practice when it came to carrying heavy things. In her days in the convent she could lift heavy bags of flour or sand, and a man leaning on her as they walked through a small house would not have winded her. These days, however, she was not used to the heaviness of someone using her as a crutch and was out of breath as they stood before the stairs.

Patrick seemed to sense her discomfort and tried to take back his arm and lean on the bannister. She was tempted to snatch it back from him, show him that she was strong enough to take care of him like this, but the air filling her lungs left her hoping he would be all right by himself to climb the stairs. As he stepped up she followed him, one hand poised behind his back lest he stumble in pain. She was glad she could not see his face, she admitted to herself.

At the top of the staircase he faltered and she swooped in under his arm and walked him the rest of the way to their bedroom. He groaned as he stretched out diagonally – she removed his shoes before swinging his legs onto the bed. When her hand stayed at his ankle and caressed his foot he lifted his head and smiled at her.

"Thank you, darling."

When they'd gotten him situated comfortably on the bed – as comfortably as possible, considering his bruised body and pride – Shelagh told him she would find some ice and get him a cup of tea. He murmured his thanks and she saw his eyes close as she turned the corner for the hall.

Downstairs, Shelagh stood at the sink and smiled. Days like this were few and far-between now. Since Angela and Timothy were on summer holiday they had all been busier than ever, finding little time to be just the two of them. Patrick need only glance her way on the more chaotic evenings and she knew he was praying for school to begin again so they could snatch some peace and quiet while the children were away. As much as he pretended to be annoyed by their constant presence, it was a joy to watch him hoist Angela onto his shoulders or play football with Timothy in the garden. Summer was quickly slipping away from them, and with it any opportunity to get the house in order in time to enjoy the outdoors.

While the kettle warmed she set about retrieving the ice from the trays and filling a tea towel. The cold metal stuck to her fingers as she transferred the cubes. Her heart was still beating quickly from the excitement. Shelagh walked across the room and shut the door they had left open a few minutes ago. A view of the mess from Patrick's fall caused her to sigh; now the work would have to wait even longer, and the ladder would certainly need to be replaced. The kettle whistled a low note and she turned, stealing a view of the living room through the hatch. She purposely turned away as her eye caught Patrick's gold cigarette case and lighter sitting on the ledge, reminding herself that she was not a smoker and that she certainly did not need a cigarette right now, no matter how taxing the day had become.

Patrick's eyes were still closed when she returned to the bedroom. He smiled and lifted his head at her presence, causing that old heat to rise in her cheeks. She loved seeing him in here, settled on the mattress and waiting for her. Today it was waiting of an altogether different sort than what she had hoped this morning, but his face looked just as eager for her touch as any other time she found him like this, and her feet swiftly carried her to his side with the same longing.

"Here you are, doctor," she said, putting down the tray and gently placing the homemade ice bundle in his hand. He fumbled with the size of it and tugged his dirty gardening shirt up on one side. The fabric gathered in his armpit and Shelagh could see his discomfort as he squirmed to flatten the folded cloth.

Without a word she took the ice from his hands and set it on the night table. His eyes followed her hands and he seemed confused until she took his shoulders and pulled him toward her with the utmost care. He followed her lead and leaned forward painfully; she reached around him and grabbed a fistful of his shirt and tugged it slowly up his back and over his head, trailing her knuckles up his spine and over his shoulder blades the entire time. Patrick's arms were the last of him out of the shirt and he sat there, in trousers, socks, and undershirt, looking mightily pleased with himself.

Shelagh tossed his shirt onto the floor, averting her gaze so she wouldn't be swept into his, and replaced the ice on his chest. With a damp cloth she blotted the scrapes on his face.

"Mmm," Patrick sighed with his eyes fluttering closed once more. His hand rested on hers until she took it away from the cold ice.

"I feel guilty," Patrick admitted with a smirk, "but I'm a little glad the children aren't around to see me like this. And I don't envy the noise at Granny Parker's house."

"Yes, though I doubt she'll let Tim play 'Paperback Writer' on her gramophone," Shelagh laughed.

They both laughed, Patrick forgetting himself and wincing. "If I have to hear that song one more time I may chuck the whole machine onto the street. Do you think we could make the record disappear before he comes home? "

"I doubt it."

"Well now Granny Parker's got the them for the entire day."

"Yes. Lucky her. And I'm still glad she's so taken with Angela. Even all these years later."

Mrs. Parker had asked for the children for the day to visit the fair, and with all the things to be done on her list, and the promise of being alone with Patrick for a few hours, Shelagh jumped at the chance. It had been unexpected the first time Timothy's grandmother asked to have Tim and baby Angela overnight over six years ago. Surely the woman could not be serious about wanting to spend time with her widowed son-in-law's new baby. It was one thing to ask for Timothy, but Angela, too? Shelagh had politely smiled and said it would be nice, but hadn't actually considered until the third time Mrs. Parker insisted. Since then there had been a many outings with "Granny P," as Angela called her. This retreat with Timothy and Angela was perfectly timed for Shelagh, but she doubted it would be a peaceful couple of days for the Parker household.

"Of course she's taken with Angela. She puts everyone under her spell," Patrick said to her with raised eyebrows, "rather like her mother."

Shelagh blushed and turned away. "Tea," she said, lifting a cup into his other hand.

"Aren't you going to join me?" He asked, tilting his head toward her side of the bed, beckoning her comfort next to him.

Shelagh regarded him for a moment. His face was warm, lined with concern and laughter and years of long nights. The tiny cuts on his left cheek were like freckles. She could see from his posture that he was in pain, that his short breaths let him have some relief from the pressure in his ribs. His shoulders were tense, more tense than usual, as if he were hesitant to become comfortable on the bed, poised to jump to the next action. The urge to kiss him sprang to Shelagh's mind before she shooed it away. With a smile she saw that leaves and tiny twigs still ran through his mussed hair from the fall, and she reached forward to take some out.

She felt him watching her, felt the heat of his cheek next to her wrist as she tossed each piece on the floor to be swept away later. When her eyes wandered down to his he was not smiling, only staring with lips slightly parted. "Join me?" he half-pleaded, blinking into her eyes.

She was helpless to resist him and kicked off her shoes before walking around the bed and laying beside him over the coverlet, thigh-to-thigh. She was careful not to get too close and cause him any discomfort, though she was certain he leaned her way so their shoulders could touch more fully.

"I'm sorry you fell," she whispered, kissing his bare shoulder and resting her cheek where her lips had just been.

"You should be sorry," Patrick teased as he sipped his tea. "I was up on that ladder for you." He turned his head and planted a kiss in her hair, breathed one of his short breaths and exhaled down her forehead and the bridge of her nose.

Shelagh gasped dramatically and clucked her tongue. "You were up on that ladder because _you_ couldn't wait for me to help you! I was just getting the post, Patrick, it would have only taken a moment."

"Nonetheless, I was trimming that hedge for you. You should be thanking me."

Shelagh jolted forward in laughter and looked back at him. "I should be thanking you for falling from a ladder and injuring yourself?" She was beaming at his ridiculousness, studying the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, waiting for the words he would use to dig himself out of the hole he was making.

Patrick's eyes danced and narrowed as he murmured, "Well, how else would I have gotten you into bed at two in the afternoon on a Saturday?"

Despite herself Shelagh blushed crimson, knowing he had bested her. She had no witty retort, only a small shake of the head that accompanied her wide smile as she leaned back and rested her head on his shoulder again.

"Drink your tea, doctor," she laughed.

"I'd rather have a cigarette," Patrick whined. There were two rules about smoking in the Turner household: one was unspoken, that Shelagh should not ever be considered a smoker even if she was caught nicking one in the garden doorway, and two, that there was no smoking upstairs. She had insisted upon it when Angela was a tiny baby, and Patrick had agreed, though a quick smoke in bed after a long night was something he still occasionally craved almost seven whole years after the rule had been made.

Shelagh lifted her head from his shoulder and looked at his profile. His eyes weren't open, and he was just lamenting, talking to the room, but she felt for him and decided right then that, if she could not wish away his pain, she could at least try to soothe it another way.

"Don't move," she ordered with a wink, knowing he would not be moving for a while, and sprang from the bed toward the hall. Down the stairs, snatch his lighter and a Henley from his case on the table, up the stairs, back onto the bed with him. He was laughing, grimacing from his rib pain, unable to stop himself.

"You – you angel," he groaned when he saw the cigarette, rolling his head back onto the pillow and turning to her. He leaned as far as he could without pain and planted a kiss on her cheek. "What about 'no smoking upstairs,' though?"

Shelagh tilted into his lips, forcing him to kiss her ear. "Oh, rules are meant to be broken, or so they say. And the children are out for the afternoon, so I won't tattle on you."

"Well then, as long as the _children_ aren't here to disapprove," her husband laughed, watching her put the cigarette between her own lips and try the lighter at its end.

_Click._

_Click._

Patrick was the one to use the lighter most often, so its stubbornness was instantly frustrating to her. Balancing the cigarette between her lips she flicked the lever again. _Click. Click._

"Blasted thing," she mumbled, watching the white line bobbing beneath her nose at each syllable.

"Here, let me," Patrick offered, taking it from her and coaxing its flame with only one flick, smiling to himself as she looked annoyed at its favoritism.

Shelagh took the first puff before passing it to Patrick. His face relaxed as soon as he inhaled, his shoulders seemed to fall, his neck appeared less uncomfortable. She loved watching him almost as much as he loved watching her, and this bodily transformation found in the form of something as small as a cigarette made her burst with adoration.

They sat there, passing the Henley between them, for several silent minutes. The bedroom that had known no smoke for so long was foggy with the afternoon light swirling in through the windows. The room itself was transformed, and the people who sat side-by-side were transforming as well. There was something profoundly sensual about sharing a cigarette with Patrick, Shelagh found. The intimacy of placing her mouth where his had just been, breathing in the smoke that he would also breathe stirred her insides as it always did. And today he was hurting, and she was hurting because of his pain, and when he offered her a fourth puff of their cigarette she declined, instead touching his arm and kissing his bare shoulder once again, finally unable to hold back. She noticed his hand stop before his lips hit the Henley, and when he turned his head toward her she was waiting for him, eyes wide.

The groan he gave was the first of the day that she knew was not brought on by pain. She watched his eyes flicker to her lips and his own lips part so slightly she might have missed it had she not been as attentive to him as he was to her.

At one time Shelagh would have resisted the urge to kiss him. When they were first married she was learning everything of love, of romance and touching and kissing and other things that still made her blush if she thought about them too long. She had lived a life with a very sheltered view of what lust was and what want was and what need was. It wasn't until many months past their wedding that she felt she could give in to herself and her own desire for him, kiss him by surprise and with fervor even in the daylight. At one time she would have smiled and looked down at her hands and said something sweet when he looked at her with such longing in his eyes. But today, with the silence of their house and the sunlight catching all the colors of their bedroom, she did what she wanted.

He seemed surprised when she leaned toward him, unable to take her in his arms with one hand clutching a dishcloth bulging with ice, the other raised with the shortened cigarette between his fingers. She felt her glasses press into her nose when she kissed him, heard him laugh a tiny laugh and felt his lips open to draw her nearer to him. She didn't allow her hands move for fear of hurting him and let the only parts of their bodies that touched be their lips. She kissed him, seasoned and knowledgeable, recalling just how he liked the taste of her tongue, how he loved to feel her smile against his teeth. He tasted of tea and tobacco, and the harder she pressed herself to him the more she realized her own weakness for it. When she felt him jolt with the touch of her hand to his chest - an involuntary movement on her part - she reared back apologetically.

"I'm sorry," she crooned, touching the place again lightly, then raising a hand to his cheek. "I don't want to hurt you."

"Then don't." Patrick's words seemed too simple for the situation. His eyes were cloudy, never wavering from her lips. When he let go of the melting ice on his chest and touched her face she startled from the chill.

"Patrick, you're hurt" she sighed, "you need to rest."

Eyes still focused on her mouth, he shook his head. "I don't think it's rest I need."

And then she was his again, craning her neck to meet his lips with hers, feeling the crashing sensation of his warm face and his cold hand all at once. They had found thousands of different ways of kissing each other over the years, from tiny pecks to deep discoveries of each other that left them breathless. Each time it was the same and a change at the same time; their need for that touch was the same, but the way of retrieving it was ever-evolving.

Patrick's cold thumb was warming as he rubbed her jaw, as his lips moved to her cheeks and his tongue left a cool trail on her jaw. She twisted into him, forgetting why they were on the bed, but was reminded when he shifted slightly he tore his hand from her face with a sharp intake of breath.

Shelagh pulled away first and observed his perturbed look before he could hide it. The hand on the ice gave him away and she sighed. "You need to rest, Patrick."

He smiled through the pain. "Doctor's orders?"

"Doctor's orders."

"Will you at least stay with me, Doctor? Keep the patient's spirits up?" He pouted then kissed her lips so softly that memories of the beginning of their marriage came to mind.

It was difficult to say no to him him, as always. Shelagh thought of all the work to be done outside and the dinner that still needed to be prepared before the children came home. The wash should have been started and the furniture dusted... but all of those responsibilities faded in the clarity of his eyes. She'd had a taste of what the day could have been – first in the hall hours earlier, and now in the bedroom – and wanted more just as much as he. But his bruised body had to be considered and she fought the very present urge to ignore all of her own common sense and throw herself at him. The taste of cigarettes from his lips was still on her tongue and his messy hair begged to be run through with her fingers. The uninterrupted silence for the next few hours was a gift that she hated to squander. A tempting thought rose to her mind as a blush rose to her cheeks: perhaps for now she could find out just how much she could kiss him before he cried out in pain.

"I'll stay with you," she smirked. "But first, I think we're going to need another Henley."


End file.
